


Quarra

by devovere



Series: Traveling Woman [8]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Episode: s06e16-17 Workforce, F/M, False Memories, Motherhood, Sexual Harassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 11:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12816522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devovere/pseuds/devovere
Summary: Sam, Naomi and Joe put their lives back together after Workforce.





	1. Recall

**Author's Note:**

> The premise of this series is that Samantha Wildman, designated madonna figure of Voyager, has an interior life. It isn’t always pretty.
> 
> Note on names: per synopsis and casting info on Memory Alpha, it seems that Quarran men have names that end in “n” (e.g. Jaffen) and women have names that end in “i” (e.g. Umali.) 
> 
> I wasn't a writer, until MiaCooper said I should be. Warmest thanks to her for opening that door and then beta-ing what emerged through it.

I open my eyes to bright lights overhead, the soft whir of equipment. I can’t place the scent in the air but I know it. But I don’t. I don’t know where I am. I was sleeping, in the apartment. How did I get here? I don’t remember anything. Panic swells and an electronic beeping begins somewhere near my head. 

A man looms over me, holding some sort of device. I flinch, cringe away. Then I’m off the bed … no, exam table … oh fuck, where am I, what have they been doing to me? I scoot away until my back hits a wall, crouching low, head down, breathing hard. 

“Ensign Wildman.”

I am taking stock of my own body, checking for damage, for sensations that might be… evidence. I don’t look up until I hear that voice again. 

“Ensign WIldman. Please, you’re safe here. No one will hurt you.” 

“That’s not my name. You have the wrong person. Where am I?” 

He’s not alone. They’re all wearing uniforms that I've never seen on this world. Blue or red but mostly black. My eyes are drawn back to the blue, to the … insignia? badge? they each wear. 

The man confers with a small woman in red and black. They are keeping their distance from me, as best they can in this crowded space -- clearly some sort of medical facility. 

“Captain, it seems the first restoration procedure hasn’t done Ensign Wildman much good. She should at least remember her name and recognize Voyager at this point.” 

“Will it help to repeat the procedure?” They are both looking at me but talking to each other. I’m edging along the wall, hoping against hope that I can somehow reach the door, then maybe lose myself in the crowd, get away, get back to the apartment. I have no idea how much time has passed. Oh FUCK I have to get back before morning or I’ll lose my job get evicted oh FUCK…

I realize I’ve missed some of their conversation in my panic. I hear the woman say, “It’s regrettable, Doctor, but we can’t delay her treatment. We need to bring Naomi back and I don’t want to begin until her mother can be there for her.” This doesn’t make any sense to me so I hope they aren’t actually speaking about me any longer. The man in blue -- a doctor, apparently? -- is arguing. Good. I make a dash for it. 

A man in yellow appears in the doorway just as I reach it, and I collide with him, hard. He’s almost knocked off balance but he gets his arms around me in a bear hug, a restraint hold. The blood rushes loud in my ears and I howl, “ _ Noooo!!!! _ ” and he is saying, “Sam. Sam. It’s me. It’s Joe. Calm down. You’re safe.” but I’m struggling, terrified, nothing is registering with me except that I’m pinned against him and cannot escape. The Doctor is next to me and I hear a hissing noise under my ear and then the blackness closes in. 

*****

When I regain consciousness, I understand things better. I’m Ensign Samantha Wildman, science officer serving aboard Voyager, married to Greskrendtregk, mother of --

My eyes fly open and I sit bolt upright. “Where is Naomi?”

The Doctor is there, and Tom Paris. I realize that I know them, but that before I didn’t. I remember feeling terrified the last time I was awake, and it’s a strange memory. Unreal, like a dream, but more vivid than a nightmare. I see my bare legs and feet and discover that I’m wearing a medical gown. 

“ _ Where is my daughter??” _ I repeat, with urgency. 

The Doctor quickly assures me. “She’s safe. You’ll see her soon. We need to get you back to normal first, and … that will take some explaining.” 

*****

It’s another full cycle before I’m deemed sufficiently recovered -- restored, more precisely -- to be more help than hindrance to my daughter’s re-entry. Those twenty-four hours include a tour of the ship, especially the science labs. As we walk through Engineering I see Joe Carey and reflexively avoid eye contact; I ruthlessly silence the little voice that is trying to tell me why. 

I spend a long stretch in my and Naomi’s quarters, accompanied by Tal Celes, looking through holo albums and talking about what I’m remembering. We skirt around the subject of Joe; Tal picks up quickly on my reluctance, and tactfully doesn’t ask me why I don’t want to see him. I don’t ask her about her time downworld or her re-entry. She excuses herself before I start reviewing my personal logs. 

A third engram procedure follows, and when I wake up from that, I’m all the way back. My identity, my story, is back within me, not something I feel I’m mostly viewing from the outside, like a researcher. All that’s missing is my daughter. I need her back, not just my memories of her. 

The hardest moment is my confidential treatment exit interview with the Doctor. We are alone in his office, veiled for privacy. He shows me scans of my brain and explains why the first attempt to restore my memories didn’t work. The memory manipulation process I’d been subjected to on Quarra had been particularly deep, stripping away nearly all my real memories far back into my life and implanting new engrams on top of my brain’s oldest neural networks. 

What the doctor had failed to account for in his design of my first treatment was the paucity of those oldest networks -- significantly fewer in number and less developed than the other crew members he’d treated before me. Basically, it had left him with an inadequate scaffolding on which to hang the engrams he’d been trying to restore, and the treatment had failed. 

Fortunately, a second, more intensive bout of engram recovery therapy had compensated, creating new workaround neural networks that connected enough engrams to restore my memories fully. However, he is concerned that my implanted memories remained more tightly connected to the restored ones than they ought to be, and he wants me to be alert to the risk of confusion, intrusive thoughts of my time on Quarra, and possibly a resurgence of childhood memories. 

I meet his eyes, hoping he won’t say what he says next. “Ensign Wildman, as a xenobiologist, you have a thorough grasp of brain anatomy and development. You surely don’t need me to tell you the significance of those underdeveloped early neural networks.” 

I nod. He waits. “You don’t,” I say. 

He looks a question at me. 

“Need to tell me. You don’t need to tell me what it means. My childhood memories were never … repressed.” 

He continues looking at me, with an expression of dawning comprehension and compassion. “I see. It is remarkable that you’ve been able to accomplish so much after such a difficult beginning.” 

He wants me to talk about it, to tell him the gory details of a childhood gone sideways. I resist. 

“Thank you, Doctor. I was determined, and lucky. Can we go to Naomi now?” 

He relents, but I’m sure this won’t be the last I hear from him on the subject. 

*****

She knows me. Thank the universe, she knows I am her mother, her real mother. That is the first thing I can tell when she sees me, and after that, I know I can handle anything that follows. There are hugs, and tears, and stories that don’t make much sense, and more tears. But the important thing is that my daughter knows me; she is safe, well, and with me. 

We are encouraged to cocoon for one full day, just the two of us -- no duty shift, ample replicator rations, and limited visitors. It reminds me of her first days as a newborn, when like now we had both been through an ordeal and then faced the challenge of simply getting to know one another. I am more grateful than I can say to my commanding officers for recognizing our need for this time. 

It does not occur to me until much later that the captain must have had her own re-entry experience, before they started bringing the rest of us back. 

Naomi and I spend the time looking at holos, remembering events on Voyager, re-telling stories of her papa, reading books together, eating her favorite foods. When night comes I tuck her in, then seeing her eyes follow me as I move towards the doorway, I change my mind, break my own long-standing rule, and crawl into bed with her. She sighs with contentment and her whole body relaxes into the curve of mine. 

As she is drifting off to sleep, she murmurs, “I’m glad I didn’t have to stay there.” I squeeze her torso, brush a kiss across her temple, tell her that I’m so glad, too. Then she sighs again, and says, “I’m sorry I forgot you, mommy.” 

I whisper, so she can’t hear the tears in my voice, “Don’t be sorry, baby. It wasn’t your fault.” Then I lie awake in the dark for hours, wondering, worrying, remembering.


	2. Return

“Captain, I’m begging you. _I need to know_.”

She looks taken aback by my sudden vehemence, and I instantly regret pushing her. I’m glad the doctor is there to advocate for me, for Naomi.

He jumps in again. “I have to agree with Ensign Wildman. We have no way of knowing what memories from Naomi’s time on Quarra may yet resurface. She’s an articulate child and closely attached to Samantha, but she is still very young. We cannot entirely rely on her ability to tell us everything that happened to her, and the records on her from the planetary government are decidedly thin.”

Captain Janeway looks weary. “In your professional opinion, Doctor, is it worth risking another diplomatic incident to obtain more information about Naomi’s adoptive family?”

I must bristle visibly -- my self-control seems to be gone since re-entry -- because the captain hastily adds, “Her _fraudulent_ adoptive family. I’m sorry, Ensign.”

The doctor smooths over my distraction. “Yes, captain. As Chief Medical Officer, I believe letting Naomi’s mother meet them, in their home, will be in Naomi’s best interests. I will be happy to explain my reasoning to the Quarran officials, if you think that would help.”

Captain Janeway cocks an eyebrow. “That won’t be necessary, Doctor. I’ll handle it. You’re needed here, on the ship. Commander Chakotay, please assemble an away team to accompany Ensign Wildman. Two security officers and … Ensign, would you like Tal Celes to come along, for … moral support?”

I choke out, “Thank you, Captain, but no. In fact, I’d prefer to go alone if possible.”

She gives me a surprisingly kindly look; apparently she understands my desire to confront this ordeal without any witnesses. But she shakes her head and says, “I”m sorry, but I can’t allow that -- for everyone’s safety. The situation is too volatile. You don’t have to take a friend along, but the commander and security team will go with you.”

*****

Naomi doesn’t want me to go. I promise her that it’s safe, that I’ll return soon, that the bad men won’t be allowed to take my memories and keep me from her. She clings to me and there is desperation in her voice as she begs me not to forget, not to forget her again. It takes coaxing from all three of us -- me, Neelix, and Tal -- to get her to let go of me, to stay and help them in the galley. I promise her again that I’ll be back before dinnertime, and then I head straight to the transporter room.

We beam down onto a street corner, in a part of the city that I don’t recognize. The streets are wider and cleaner, and the apartment buildings are much taller and more architecturally interesting than what I’d seen previously. I say to Commander Chakotay, “I guess they put her in the nice part of town.” I almost miss the discerning look he gives me in reply.

As I turn to survey the neighborhood, the smell of the city, the quality of this planet’s light and gravity, all pull me back hard into my mindwiped memories. Fear and a deep sense of worthlessness rise up hard in my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut, give my head a shake to clear it, then open my eyes to find the commander still watching me. Deep breath. I can do this, for Naomi. These are false memories, deceptive emotions. I focus my mind’s eye on my daughter, and my body calms.

The deputy governor and his aide are waiting for us at the family’s door, along with a man they introduce as the deputy minister of health, tasked with overseeing the dismantling of the illegal mindwiping project. He gives me a particularly sympathetic look, one I recognize as the sort that officials direct at those they label victims. I suppress a rude thought, smile politely, shake hands with each of them. Commander Chakotay does most of the talking.

Kubeki opens the outer door at our ring, looking nervous and, to my eye at least, resentful. The officials thank her for agreeing to our visit, and so does Commander Chakotay. I am introduced as Ensign Samantha Wildman, Naomi’s mother, and she flinches, avoids my gaze. Invites us in, clearly under some amount of duress. It penetrates my haze of anger that this situation must be difficult for her and her husband as well.

Their home is much larger and far more comfortably furnished than the one I had shared with three roommates. As we enter the main living space Kubeki introduces us to her husband, who welcomes us in a voice that booms slightly too loudly. I see him size up the commander and swiftly assess the security team. He barely looks at me.

We are given a tour of their home. It’s awkward, with four from Voyager and three government officials squeezing into rooms and clogging up hallways. More awkward is that both Kubeki and Storrin repeatedly slip and call my daughter Alassi, the name under which she’d come to them. Once the deputy governor does likewise, and the health minister smoothly corrects him. My slow burn of rage continues to build.

I can tell from our hosts’ comments that they are trying to impress upon me the material comforts they’d supplied for Naomi -- a large bedroom tastefully furnished and equipped with Quarra’s latest technology. They show me her clothing and schoolbooks, and I wonder nastily why they have kept these things. In the kitchen they show me the menu plan Kubeki had prepared each week for the past month, and produce Naomi’s medical records. I do not point out that these are only the records from her time in their home, and that I have seen them as well as the records from her arrival and mindwiping procedures.

They are trying to demonstrate that they took good care of her. Probably they _did_ take good care of her. But what I need to know is not what she ate or wore. I need to know how they spoke to her, whether they answered her questions, respected her wishes when possible, showed her affection. I realize that even if I could ask these questions I would not trust their answers. This is a fool’s errand. I should not have come.

Tea is offered and we are subtly given to understand by the aide that we cannot refuse it. Six of us sit on upholstered chairs while Kubeki pours and passes. Our security team flanks the little party, doing their best to fade into the muted wall coverings. Chakotay reads my growing despair, and asks our hosts to tell us a story from Naomi’s time with them. They look at each other and start to chuckle.

“Oh, yes, we’ll never forget her curiosity! It truly was the most remarkable thing about her.” Kubeki’s eyes are alight with amusement as she perches on a loveseat next to her husband. “From the moment we met her she would _not_ stop asking questions!”

Her husband grunts. “To tell you the truth, it was a bit much sometimes. But she’s obviously a clever girl. Maybe too clever for her own good, right?”

“Oh, Storrin, it didn’t bother me. I admired her spirit! But when her teacher called us … oh my goodness, I will never forget the look on that woman’s face!” Kubeki seems to have a bit of a rebel streak herself, I think.

Storrin’s sour expression suggests he too recalls the teacher’s phone call, but with considerably less delight. “Even allowing that Naomi didn’t know any better … it was disruptive. You shouldn’t have encouraged her, dear.”

“I don’t think the world is going to come crashing to a halt just because a little girl wants her teacher to explain basic labor economics to the class.”

Chakotay inserts himself into their developing squabble. “Labor economics?”

Kubeki turned to him with alacrity, clearly pleased to have an engaged audience. “Yes! Can you imagine? Naomi had been with us for just a week at that point, and she must have noticed all the parents in the neighborhood going off to work all day while the children went to school. They were doing a unit on careers, using math concepts to illustrate the different earning power of different professions. And then Naomi -- being clever, and maybe just a tad naughty -- piped up and asked her teacher to explain why teacher salaries are so much smaller than factory department manager salaries. Naomi pointed out that both jobs required supervising roughly the same number of people but that teachers had to actually _teach_ as well as test their students while managers only have to _assess_ their workers.”

Storrin was sitting hunched over and his face was turning red. He was very carefully not looking in the deputy minister’s direction.

‘“Anyway,” continued his wife, “her teacher was so afraid that Naomi would tell us about this conversation that she called me before Naomi even got home to make sure I heard her side of the story first. The poor woman was so flustered. As if we would take the word of an off-worlder child fresh off a transport at face value and report the school for spreading union talk. Preposterous! And she knows full well that Storrin here works in _upper_ management! Of course we were going to set Alassi -- oops, sorry, _Naomi_ straight about how the workforce operates.”

Her husband, picking up gratefully on the invitation to disparage the teacher rather than continue outlining Naomi’s perceptive if innocent class critique, added, “I do think at least half the teacher’s displeasure was having her low earnings pointed out by her own student. Well, then perhaps she should have used different class materials, yes? And anyway, teachers don’t do so badly here. You’d think someone had called her a janitor.”

That brings me out of my reverie. “That was my job. I was a janitor for the big conduit manufacturing plant on the other side of town.”

All eyes in the room turn my way and then slide away, as if I have just done something impolite. Except for Chakotay’s. He studies me thoughtfully, then turns to the health official and asks him, “Did you know that?”

The official looks uncomfortable and replies, “It was part of Ensign Wildman’s file, yes. I saw it earlier today when your captain arranged this meeting.”

“Was it also part of Naomi’s file?”

Kubeki quickly chimes in, “Certainly not! As you know, we were told she was an orphan, rescued from a ship on which all the adults had died of disease. We had no idea her mother was here on Quarra.”

Chakotay turns back to the health minister, “I mean, was it in the records that Kadan kept on Naomi? You would have seen those as well as Ensign Wildman’s surely?”

The man swallowed and replied, “Yes, I saw them, and yes, it was documented there that the child’s mother had been mindwiped and assigned to maintenance work.”

“Why?” I break in. It’s like they’ve all briefly forgotten that I’m there, that Naomi and I aren’t merely an assortment of documents.

“Why what, Ensign WIldman?” asks the deputy minister.

“Why did they separate Naomi from me? We were captured together. They knew I was her mother. Why not keep us together, give me a job that could have supported us both?”

The minister looks pointedly at the health official. “That’s a valid question, Braggen. Do you know the answer?”

He squirms more, obviously growing deeply uncomfortable. “Please understand that my colleagues and I knew _nothing_ of this illegal program until a few days ago. We are trying as hard as we can to get up to speed on its details -- no small task as thousands of victims are turning up during our ongoing investigation.”

The minister doesn’t let him off the hook. “But you admit you’ve studied the Wildmans’ case, seen their records. What was the rationale for separating them?”

“Minister, you know as well as I do that the labor shortage for unskilled workers is even more severe than for those with technical training. There aren’t a lot of uneducated entry-level earners floating around in space waiting to be picked off, after all. Apparently Dr. Kadan felt Ensign Wildman was needed in that sphere.”

I feel an odd sense of detached fascination. “But I’m _not_ an unskilled worker, Mr. Braggen. I’m a scientist. I have an advanced degree in xenobiology and six years of experience serving as science officer on a starship.”

“Yes, Ensign, of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply --” The stony expressions on my and Chakotay’s faces must have registered with him, because he stops trying to apologize and finally just says it: “Here on Quarra we don’t have much use for the biological sciences. We’re intensely ramping up our tech manufacturing capacity and need engineers, technicians. There may be a few openings in research and development, but those would go to people in the hard sciences -- chemistry, physics.”

“So Kadan just stripped it all away and let me clean floors and toilets -- for a pittance that would barely house and feed myself, let alone my child. Forgive me, Mr. Braggen, but doesn’t that strike you as excessively wasteful of an educated mind?”

“Well.” He has decided on full disclosure and he barrels ahead, not thinking or caring that we have an audience for what he is about to reveal. “It wasn’t only that your training was in the wrong field for our labor needs. Your neurological make-up, once your education and adult memories were deactivated, was well-suited to … simple work.”

I freeze. Chakotay grates out, “Explain that, please.”

Braggen complies. “Ensign WIldman’s brain scans showed evidence of significant trauma and neglect in her early life. It’s most impressive, really, that she ever managed to succeed in school, let alone establish a science career. Most people with her neural make-up wouldn’t be capable of it, cognitively or socially.”

Kubeki actually gasps at that. I blink at her. I’d almost forgotten that she and Storrin were there. Suddenly they’re not as important to me as what this man can tell me, about what was done to me. I forget that I returned to Quarra for Naomi.

“So they were scanning my brain, and they found the underdeveloped neural networks suggesting early trauma, and they said, “Hey, she’d make a good scut worker. People like her learn early not to complain or protest. They’ll take abuse and keep coming back for more.” Isn’t that what happened?” I’m picking up steam.

Storrin has to put his two cents in, of course. “Ensign, janitorial work is hardly abusive. Someone has to clean our workplaces. With your memories of doing science research gone, was it really so bad? Honest work for an honest paycheck, no?”

“The _cleaning_ work was fine, Mr. Storrin. I’m not too proud to do needful work, even now with my memories intact. It’s the work _environment_ that wasn’t so great. I spent as much time dodging my supervisors’ grabby hands and ignoring their demands for sex as I did mopping and sweeping.” The room is shocked into silence.

I turn back to the health official. “Did my file tell you that Kadan gave me a whole pile of lovely new adult memories in place of my real ones -- my *good* ones? He really went all out -- abusive boyfriends, poverty, fleeing a war. He made damn good and sure I'd be grateful for crumbs and a safe place to sleep. Do you think that was a coincidence?” I toss a suggestion over to the deputy minister. “You might want to look into that, by the way. It's like I was made to order for that particular factory, really.”

I continue, “My first day on the job I saw what happened to my roommate who filed a complaint. She’d been there for a month, finally couldn’t take it any longer. She was out on her ass before her shift was over, and got evicted from our apartment at the end of the week when she couldn’t make rent. They’d blacklisted her, you see, so nobody would hire her at any of the other factories.”

All three government officials are grimacing; the aide is frantically taking notes. It’s the Quarran couple who look shocked. I’m on a roll, rapidly losing all sense of perspective on what we’re supposed to be doing here. I tear into them.

“Oh _please_. Don’t try to tell me that you had no idea this is what goes on on your shop floors and in your offices. It’s a very old story, apparently common throughout the galaxy.”

Kubeki finds her voice first. “Darling, I’m very sorry you were subjected to such vile treatment. And no, for what it’s worth, I’m not shocked to hear that it happens.” There are layers of meaning in her voice that even her husband can’t entirely manage to ignore. He shoots her a startled glance while she continues. “What _concerns_ me … well, maybe I shouldn’t say anything. I suppose it’s not my business any longer, now that you and Alassi -- I’m sorry, _Naomi_ \-- have been reunited.”

I can’t help myself. I lean forward, eyes fixed on hers. “Say it. What _concerns_ you, Kubeki? Please, we all want to know.”

She can’t resist either. We are two mothers scorned by this planet’s sick society, I for my mental scars and she for her barrenness, and this locks us together in something that is starting to feel like a fight to the emotional death. “Well, dear. I’m just … _surprised_ , I guess, that someone with your … _unfortunate background_ … was ever permitted to bear a child in the first place. Didn’t it strike anyone as an awful risk, to trust someone with your sort of … _damage_ … with the care and nurture of an infant?”

Chakotay abruptly stands, moves between us two women. “All right, that’s enough. This meeting is concluded.” He’s angry but keeping it reined in tight. His awareness of the entire room seems sharpened, heightened, while mine is dwindling down to a single point of focus. I am looking at his back, at the tension in his shoulders under the red of his uniform, trying to ignore how my entire field of vision is filling with red even as my body feels icy with shock. Then Ensign Murphy has me gently by the elbow and the two of us are out on the street. I have no memory of how we got here. He calls for a beam out and the transporter room materializes around me. I hear his voice over the comm instructing the transporter technician to escort me to sickbay. I follow orders numbly, on autopilot, too cold and dead inside to consider resisting.


	3. Revenge

It’s an hour later before the commander arrives in sickbay. I am sitting on a biobed, explaining for the fourth time to the Doctor that I feel fine, that as he has finished all the tests he’d wanted to run and given me a mild sedative to counteract my symptoms of stress, I really need to be going now or I’ll miss dinner with my daughter.  

Chakotay asks the Doctor to give us a minute. He stands looking at me, face grave. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

That surprises me. “For what? I’m the one who lost my composure down there.” 

“And I’m the one who let it get to that point.”

I shrug. “You couldn’t have known.” I’m not entirely sure what I mean, exactly -- couldn’t have known about my past, or about my time on Quarra? Or that Naomi’s fake parents would turn out to be complete assholes? 

“I could have. I should have. I … didn’t protect you.” 

“Well, Commander, if it’s any consolation … you’re not the first. Don’t worry about it. May I go take Naomi to dinner now?” I know I’m needling him, digging myself in deeper, but I can’t help it. My need to be with Naomi,  _ to keep my promise to her _ , is reaching fever pitch. 

Fortunately, that is what he seems to intuit from my uncharacteristically bitter urgency. “I’m scheduling you for counseling with me, twice a week, starting tomorrow. Until then -- dismissed. And give Naomi my regards.” 

I’m so relieved to be freed from sickbay that it doesn’t occur to me until later that night to wonder what exactly he’d been doing in the hour before he came to sickbay. 

*****

When I see her, Naomi is waiting in the mess hall, hunched in a chair, watching the doors. Tal hovers behind her, looking helpless. I feel a twinge of guilt for saddling her with Naomi’s care in my absence, but that twinge is extinguished by her warm smile, which I see when I look up from Naomi’s full-body, shamelessly needy hug. Tal squeezes my shoulder as she silently slips past us into the corridor. I’ll talk to her later. 

Naomi and I stand just inside the doorway, swaying back and forth for long minutes, feeling one another’s breath and heartbeat. Her muffled sobs pass quickly, and then we are just peacefully, finally together, in a state approaching symbiosis. Crew members walk carefully past us, voices hushed, giving us space. They seem to understand that in this way we are healing. 

Naomi doesn’t ask me how I spent the afternoon, downworld, and I don’t bring it up. We seem to have a tacit agreement not to discuss it. It doesn’t matter anyway. There is nothing about it that she needs to know, and very little that I would share with her willingly. 

Eventually I pause in stroking her hair to ask, “Are you hungry? Should we eat dinner here or in our quarters?” 

“Let’s eat here, mommy. I helped Neelix make the food. I want to see everyone eat it.” I can’t argue with that logic, though it makes me smile. 

To give her a good view of her fellow diners, she sits with her back to the viewport. That puts my back to the room, but as I only have eyes for my daughter, it’s all the same to me. 

That’s how Joe Carey is able to approach our table without my noticing. I just see Naomi’s eyes light up as her face lifts to greet a visitor. 

“Uncle Joe!” She is happy to see him, more than the other shipmates who have stopped to say hello. I realize she has missed him. 

He walks into my field of vision, and as I see him, really see his face for the first time since … everything … I realize I have missed him, too. I give him a shy, apologetic smile, which he answers with a relieved one of his own. I offer him my hand, and he pulls me up from my chair and into his warm encompassing embrace. 

I have a moment of flashback, remembering how he restrained me in sickbay after my first failed treatment, when I didn’t know him. My body stiffens involuntarily, and he instantly releases me, steps back a bit. But I search out his eyes, asking silently for forgiveness, for time, for another chance. The concern melts from his eyes leaving only warmth behind. 

At our invitation, Joe pulls up a chair and joins us at our table. As Naomi gives him a detailed account of the ingredients and preparation steps for each food on his plate, dropping sometimes into a hilarious, spot-on imitation of Neelix as she does so, he laughs at all the right times, musses her hair playfully, asks questions that show her he is hanging on her every word. She laps up his attention, while I just sit back and drink in the sight of them both. 

My bright, vibrant, beautiful daughter. How many times is this, now, that I have almost lost her forever? And wouldn’t this loss, on Quarra, have been the worst of all, taking as it did my very knowledge of her, of myself as her mother? Even if we had been left there, living separate lives, never knowing what we had lost? It doesn’t bear contemplation. 

Kubeki’s final words still ring in my ears. “ _ Didn’t it strike anyone as an awful risk, to trust someone with your sort of  _ damage _ with the care and nurture of an infant?” _ She had no idea how much careful thought I’d given to just that question, before conceiving Naomi, before even marrying Gres in the first place. 

“Success is the best revenge.” The old saying runs through my head, and apparently out of my mouth as well, for Naomi and Joe both stop and look at me. I shrug, smiling. Naomi resumes her chatter without missing a beat, but Joe continues to consider me thoughtfully. When Naomi next pauses for a mouthful of food, I casually ask him, “Joe, would you like to come over for dessert when we’re done here?” 

Naomi’s shriek of “Hot fudge sundaes!!” drowns out his reply, but his real answer is in his smiling eyes. 


End file.
